


The Blimp, the Baker and the Royal Buns

by LateStarter58



Series: Scenes with Martha and Tom [6]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anti-Donald Trump, Baking, F/M, Politics, Wimbledon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 20:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Martha is preparing for the anti-Trump demo, but Tom has tennis on his mind.





	The Blimp, the Baker and the Royal Buns

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in the summer of 2018, as you might guess.

“I’m thinking I’ll bake some special cupcakes to take.”

“Mmmm?”

Martha put down her iPad and looked across the table at Tom. He was sat looking into the middle distance, his gaze unfocused. Between the two of them, wriggling in her seat and banging a wooden toy horse on the table noisily was their fourteen-month-old daughter, Audrey.

“THOMAS! Are you actually listening to me?”

“What? Yes, of course… take what to where…?” He tried the smile - the sweet one of desperation that occasionally worked when all else failed - but it was no use. “Sorry, love, I was drifting.”

Her response came through gritted teeth. “The demo tomorrow.”

He looked at her blankly for a moment before realisation dawned. “ _Oh..._ for Trump!”

“Mump!” said Audrey loudly, frowning. Tom looked at Martha, and they both laughed.

“Honestly, Aude, I don’t know why I bother sometimes. I’ve talked about little else all week, haven’t I? And yet your Dad’s so busy planning his trip to the bloody _Lahdidah_ Royal Box on Sunday with his girlfriend Camilla he doesn’t even notice.” She stood up, clearing the last of the breakfast things and starting to set out her baking gear.

Tom stood as well, nudging Martha out of the way with his hip, gently, to finish filling the dishwasher. “Of course we know, don’t we, that she’s only jealous that I’m getting to meet Bjorn Borg while she isn’t, because she refuses to come with me, right, Audrey, sweetheart?”

Their daughter, bored by this already hackneyed argument, threw her toy against the wall spectacularly and laughed delightedly at her own extravagance. Jake jumped up from his bed and walked carefully over to sniff uncertainly at it before backing off when Martha told him “No, leave!”. Tom collected it, scooped the baby up and perched her on his hip where she bounced, swinging her legs like a rodeo cowboy. “What sort of cupcakes?”

“I thought, something, um, _orange…_ ” Martha replied with a wicked grin.

 

                        _______________________________________

 

Tom’s parental leave/sabbatical was going quite well, although he had been away promoting _Infinity War_ at some pretty inconvenient moments, including the weeks immediately before the start of filming _As You Like It._ Because Martha was director-lead actor-adaptor she had been stressed, somewhat more so than usual, and he was justifiably worried about her in his absence. He arrived home on the eve of their departure for Suffolk to find the house in a state of uncanny calm that unnerved him much more than chaos would have. But all was well, and the shoot went pretty smoothly, all things considered. Audrey had a marvellous time in Aldeburgh being spoiled rotten by Granny Hiddles and Martha proved to everyone that she had been the right choice for the project, wrapping on time and with few alarms or excursions beyond the expected.  

Now he was back to his duties as house husband, Daddy and dog walker and that was just fine by him. Martha had been hard at it every day, editing the play, getting it ready for broadcast, simultaneously working on new projects, and baking as a safety valve when everything got too much. The Trump visit to London, coming as it did at a time of her maximum fury in the wake of so much uncertainty over the future of the country, had given Martha a focus Tom was - almost - pleased about. She went into a tornado of preparation.

His invitation to go to the Men’s Singles Final had come from an old school friend, and it was a lovely gesture. William knew what a tennis fan he was. It was for them both, of course, but to sit in _that place, with those people_ : royalty (including quite possibly her particular bête noir, Princess Michael of Kent) and Tory government politicians? Martha had come a long way over, she had crossed a lot of red lines for him, but that was a step too far and she could not do it, not even for the love of her life. Tom understood.

 

                        __________________________________________

 

It was way too scorchio to take Jake out later in the day, so his walk had been absorbed into Tom’s early morning run routine in the very un-British heatwave that London was still enduring. Lurchers have no subcutaneous fat so they don’t get hot so easily as some types of dog, but Jake was more prone to sunburn as his smooth brindle coat was so fine. Hence, Tom and his daughter were unaccompanied as they set out for Parliament Hill after breakfast, leaving Martha to her baking. Unaccompanied, that is, apart from a paparazzo who shamelessly attempted to snap pictures of them, and especially Audrey. This infuriated her father, but he remained stony-faced and turned the buggy at an angle to try to keep her hidden from the camera as much as possible. He knew it wasn’t realistic to think that they could keep her completely closeted from view but they could do their best.

When they got back, he felt better for the exercise and the fun they had had, and Audrey was dozing and dusty with hair full of leaves and petals, after running up and down the grassy slopes and falling over several hundred times and only crying twice. She was her mother’s daughter alright. When he opened the door, the house was suffused with the delicious aroma of orange zest.

“Mmmmmm! That smells divine…”

“Mitts off, Eton! These are strictly TWAT members-only.” Martha was lifting golden cupcakes out of tins and putting them to cool on racks.

“TWAT?”

“Theatre Women Against Trump” He frowned slightly. “Yeah, I know, it’s not exactly great, but we wanted to get _TWAT_ onto our t-shirts, so…” She shrugged, grinning. “The backs have something else on.” She walked to the table, where a cardboard box rested and took out a t-shirt. It was bright orange, and when she held it up, Tom saw that written vertically on the front in fluorescent yellow was the acronym she had just explained. When she turned it round he read ‘Sexual Harassment Is Terrible Horrible Evil Arsehole Dickhead’.

“SHITHEAD. Yes, very good. Very, um...articulate.”

“Oh, shut up, Shakespeare. It’s a demo, not a lecture. We will have some more thought out placards. You need something snappy on a t-shirt.” She glared at him. “Anyway, we’re not dealing with someone who reads much, are we?”

“Indeed not, no.”

“Right, she looks out for the count, what did you do, make her do a 5K?”

“She kept chasing butterflies, up and down hills, you know what she’s like, won’t give up.”

Martha wiped her hands and bent down to lift Audrey out of the buggy, kissing her sleepy face. The babe drooped her blonde curly head onto her mother’s shoulder. “That’s my girl. Want a little snooze, treazh? C’mon then, just forty winks before lunch.”

Tom had poured himself a glass of cold water and was downing it in one when Martha returned to the kitchen. She took a moment to admire the sight. “God, you’re sexy when you’re sweaty!”

“Yeah, I need a shower, I know.”

“If you give me five minutes, I’ll join you.”

“Now there’s a promise…”

“Just let me make the frosting.”

“Yellow?”

“Of course. And stiff.” She smirked and gave him a sideways glance. “It has to stick out at an unnatural angle, look weird, you know.” Martha set to it with the mixer and cream cheese, icing sugar, lemon juice and colouring, and once she was happy with the consistency she put it to chill in the fridge. “Right, nothing more to do until the morning. I’ll put those...” she nodded to the buns still cooling on the racks, “...in tins after lunch, and assemble them before we set off. Marianne is coming here to help me.”

Tom sidled over and wrapped a long arm around her, bending down to nuzzle her cheek. “Is it OK if I have a taste?”

“No.”

“Of you, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, well, um...oh, shut up!” she swiped at him with one hand.

He laughed. He could still catch her off-balance, just occasionally. It was rare, and he relished it all the more for that.

 

                        ___________________________________________

 

When Tom returned from taking Audrey to her Friday nursery session, there were a dozen women in TWAT t-shirts milling around in the kitchen, drinking coffee and talking excitedly. He was barely noticed by most as he passed through, poured himself a cup, was slapped on the hand for trying to swipe a cupcake and silently admonished by Martha. He was sitting in his office, just wondering to himself if this sabbatical was such a good idea when he heard a soft tap on the door.

“Yes?”

It was Marianne, Martha’s agent. She swept in, somehow still looking incredibly glamorous, a sort of rounder, shorter Sophia Loren, even in something as distinctly un-glamorous as an orange crew-neck cotton tee shirt. “Hello, Tom darling. How are you? Domestic life still suiting you, sweetie?” They exchanged cheek kisses.

“Yes, actually, it is, thanks. I couldn’t wait to get back from Seattle.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “I bet! That looked like quite a marathon for you, darling. You certainly gave your all. But then, you always do, don’t you?” He smiled, and looked down at his lap. “So, I won’t ask what you’ve got planned for after this break. I know what Martha’s got lined up though, and it’s quite a lot!”

“Yes…” Raised voices from the kitchen suggested that it was time to head off. Marianne waved apologetically to Tom and left. He watched her go. Yes, Martha did have a lot coming up. Her play at the _National_ , effectively a one-woman show, that stage production of _The Tempest_ she’d been trying to do for years but had finally got backers for, three TV roles… And they had talked about another project last night. Something mutual.

Did Marianne know…? No, she couldn’t possibly. She was just teasing him, she was worse than Martha for that, or perhaps she was on the hunt for another joint project for them and testing the water. You could never quite tell with her.

“We’re off now, love!” Martha stepped into the room and slipped onto his lap, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him passionately. When she allowed him to come up for air, he looked into her eyes.

“What was that for?”

“For being such a wonderful wife, darling!”

When Tom pinched her backside, she wriggled and squirmed to get away. “Hey, stop that, I was being-”

“You were, as usual, taking the piss, Mar. Now, go, and give the rotten bastard hell.”

 

                                    ___________________________________

 

The evening was still warm when Martha stepped quietly into the house and put her mostly empty cake boxes down on the kitchen counter. She could hear Tim Henman and Andrew Castle burbling quietly on the TV, and when she tiptoed into the living room, Tom was snoring on the sofa with Audrey stretched out, also asleep, on his chest. He had dressed her in her own, baby-sized TWAT t-shirt, and somehow found a pair of jammie trousers in a tangerine pineapple print to nearly match. The sight made her mother’s heart swell and Martha reached for her phone, desperate to capture the image. The picture taken, she crouched down beside her family and kissed each of them in turn: the baby softly on her forehead, Tom more firmly on his lips, enough so he stirred and opened his eyes.

“You’re back.”

“Sharp as ever.”

He eyed her but held his tongue. Carefully sitting up onto his elbows while holding Audrey in place, he kissed Martha back. “Have a good time?”

“It wasn’t an outing, Eton, it was a protest.”

“I know, but you know what I mean! It can be cathartic, letting out your feelings alongside a group of like-minded souls. Enjoyable, too. It looked like there were some good costumes and placards.”

She smiled and nodded, then glanced at the TV. “Bloody hell, look!”

He followed her gaze: the second men’s semi-final had only just started. Tom looked at his watch. “I doubt they’ll finish tonight. Whoever wins is going to be tired on Sunday…”

“I’ll put this one down if you pour us a couple of glasses of wine, love.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Martha lifted the dead weight of Audrey off Tom’s chest. “And don’t touch the leftover cupcakes in the kitchen.”

“Why ever not?” His tone was unmistakably wounded.

“Because from what I’ve been hearing from Helena, the royals hate 45 as much as the rest of us, so you’re taking them with you on Sunday, OK?”

           

                        ______________________________________

 

“I don’t know what your Dad would say.”

“ _You_ don’t know what he would say…” Martha looked at Tom. She was searching in one of her drawers for yellow and orange ribbon, having popped her remaining orange-and-lemon cupcakes into individual cake boxes she happened to have in the cupboard, so that Tom could take them to Wimbledon to give, t _o of all people_ , William, Kate, Charles and Camilla. Yes, Martha East, famed lefty feminist and outspoken republican, daughter of that old Trot and union rabble-rouser, Joe East, granddaughter of a founder member of North Woolwich and District Communist Party, was sending a sample of her homemade cakes to the bloody Windsors, however discreetly and as a private gesture of - dare she think it? - _solidarity..._

“You could still come, you know, Mar... it’s not too late, I can text William, we could get your Mum down to sit, or Emms,” Martha rolled her eyes, “I’m sure they could-”

“Thomas, I am not going to sit in the Royal Box at fu-” She stopped herself, glancing at the baby. “No, thank you. You know that I am a bike racing girl and it’s Sachsenring MotoGP today.”

“O-o-o-k-a-a-a-y…”

“Not to mention the World Cup Final… You can do one other thing for me, though, while you’re there.”

“Oh, yes, what’s that?” He dazzled her with one of his extra-specials.

“May’s bound to be there. Tell her to get her effing arse in gear, have another referendum and stop all this Brexit madness once and for all.”

“Well…”

“Well?”

“Well, there’s no harm in asking, I suppose…”

“No. Here, take her a bloody bun an’ all.”


End file.
